


History Repeats Itself

by labeautelivresque



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Rumbelle Secret Santa, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2015, cursed!storybrooke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 20:51:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5470397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labeautelivresque/pseuds/labeautelivresque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumbelle Secret Santa 2015. Prompt: fairytale, arranged marriage, societal hypocrisy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History Repeats Itself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moonlight91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlight91/gifts).



> Rumbelle Secret Santa 2015: fairytale, arranged marriage, societal hypocrisy

He was the pawnbroker. More than that, he was the fearsome landlord who owned the majority of the town and there was hardly a single person in Storybrooke, Maine who hadn't had an unfavorable confrontation with Mr. Gold. In fact, there was only one.

Rose French was-- well, she might have been the town librarian, had Mayor Mills not closed down the library years ago for reasons nobody could quite remember. It wasn't a rare sight to see her with a book in hand, regardless of where she was or what she was doing. More than once, she'd nearly run right into Dr. Hopper while he was out walking his dog. She was a nice girl, anyone in town would tell you that: nice, albeit a little eccentric.

Twenty-five years old and she had never been in a real relationship. It might not have been so surprising were it not for the fact that Rose was extraordinarily beautiful, and there wasn't a single man who wouldn't have loved to take her out. If that wasn't bad enough, she was always prattling on about the places she'd read about in her books. Storybrooke was a small town, and as with most small towns, most of the locals couldn't imagine living anywhere else. It wasn't so with Rose. Everyone had heard the spiel at least once: one day, she would say, when she had saved enough money and when her father no longer needed her help in his flower shop, she would turn her back on Storybrooke and venture outside its borders to travel the world.

Knowing her father, everyone thought to themselves, even if he deigned to let her leave his shop, she would never have the money to finance her dream. Moe French was a kind man, there was no mistaking it, but he was also reckless with his money. Business in his flower shop wasn't as good as it had once been, and he had… well, a habit of gambling away his earnings at the pool table.

Rose had worked in the flower shop since she was a teenager. While it certainly wasn't her choice occupation, she did enjoy flower arranging. Her name, the customers would say, suited her well. When she wasn't reading one of her books or spending time with Ruby Lucas at her grandmother’s diner, Rose was at the flower shop.

And, once a month, Mr. Gold dropped by to collect the rent.

Occasionally, Rose’s father would handle Gold, but more often than not, he left matters to his daughter, who seemed to be the sole individual who the miserly Gold didn't despise. Those meetings, of course, weren't the only times when the two saw one another. Every morning before work, at exactly 8:15, Gold and Rose would go to Granny’s diner and order the same breakfast to-go: a platter of blueberry pancakes with maple syrup and powdered sugar, and scrambled eggs. They would sit side-by-side at the counter, sipping at their coffee and iced tea, respectively, and it was usually Rose who started to speak.

“Good morning, Mr. Gold.” A shy smile.

“Ms. French.” A curt nod, followed by what could only be described as a _blush_.

Sometimes, that was as far as the conversation went. Neither of them, after all, were particularly chatty. Occasionally, Rose would stick her nose into her latest book until Granny returned with her order; and, sometimes, during such a time, Gold would inquire about what she was reading. What was it about? Was she enjoying it? Perhaps she might allow him to borrow it when she finished reading it?

Sometimes, she would ask how business was going at the pawnshop. Had he gotten any new antiques? If any rare, old books were brought in, could he please save them for her? After finding out that he had a spinning wheel in the back of the shop, she’d bombarded him with questions that he’d been all too happy to answer. He knew that spinning wheels were irrelevant in this day and age, and nobody had ever before had any interest in hearing him talk about them.

He liked Rose French. He _more_ than liked her.

What was more, she liked him, too.

* * *

“Will you _please_ stop staring at him?” Ruby’s voice cut through Rose’s thoughts, and she turned to glance questioningly at her friend. She hadn’t even realized that she’d been looking at Gold, who had uncharacteristically stopped by the diner for lunch. He was a regular at breakfast but, like Rose, he always ordered to-go. He _never_ came for lunch, and she didn’t think she’d ever seen him eating in before. “Seriously, Rose. When I told you that it was time to find a boyfriend, I didn’t mean _**Gold.**_ ”

Rose frowned. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

Ruby’s eyes flashed back and forth between Rose and the pawnbroker, who seemed to suspect that he was being talked about, as he was now stealing glances at Rose from across the room. She groaned. “Now _he’s_ looking at you. It’s **_creepy_**.”

Rose ignored that, jerking her head around to meet Gold’s eyes, a faint blush on her cheeks. Immediately, he dropped his eyes to the table, looking for all the world as though he’d like to crawl into a ditch and hide. “It’s not **_creepy_** ,” Rose retorted, turning back to her friend. “I think he’s sweet. He just pretends like he’s not.”

“It’s Gold,” said Ruby flatly. “He’s a bastard. Not to mention…” She trailed off.

“Not to mention _what_?” demanded Rose, crossing her arms over her chest. Then, before Ruby could even begin to form a reply, she beat her to the punch. “Age doesn’t matter.” Her friend opened her mouth to say something, but Rose’s anger was boiling over and she couldn’t stop herself from continuing. “You’ve been bothering me for _years_ about finding someone and when I finally do, it’s apparently **_creepy_**?”

“Rose, come on, I--.”

Rose ignored her. She was halfway to the door before realizing that Mr. Gold was watching her again, and if she didn’t know any better, she would have thought that he’d overheard their entire conversation. He was looking at her strangely, his mouth slightly agape and nothing short of disbelief shining in his eyes. She paused by his table, reaching out impulsively to rest her hand over his. It must have been fewer than five seconds, but it felt like an eternity before she found the will to lift her hand away.

Later, she thought to herself that she must have imagined it, but she could have _sworn_ that he’d wrapped his fingers around hers for a moment-- just a moment-- as she’d turned to leave the diner.

She couldn’t, however, pretend that something hadn’t happened between them. He’d heard _everything_ , she was sure of that. He knew the way she felt about him, and if he didn’t feel the same about her, then he was doing an excellent job of feigning affection.

Perhaps that was the reason she wasn’t shocked (she was hardly _angry_ ) when, a few nights later, her father came home from the flower shop and explained to her that Mr. Gold had struck a deal with him in exchange for an erasure of the debts he owed.

“What did you promise him, Papa?”

Moe French grimaced. “He wants to marry you.”

* * *

The marriage of Mr. Gold and Rose French was the talk of the town over the following weeks. The majority of Storybrooke was under the impression that Rose had had no say in the matter: that her father had forced her, unwillingly, to marry the monster who owned (and, they would say, _terrorized_ ) most of the town.

In truth, Gold would never have gone through with the deal if Rose had appeared unhappy about the turn of events. He’d had a hunch, however, that she would agree. Following the conversation he’d unwittingly found himself privy to at Granny’s, he’d allowed himself to trust that the feelings he’d once believed were unrequited were, in fact, returned.

Rose, for her part, wasn’t particularly pleased with her father for accepting Gold’s terms before asking her about it. She, too, would have preferred that their relationship progress organically before jumping into the marriage bed, but… all things considered, she was happy with her new husband. Ruby would never believe it, of course, but Gold _was_ sweet to her.

Every morning, he woke much earlier than Rose to go to Granny’s and pick up their breakfast. He’d come home while she was still asleep, transfer her pancakes and eggs onto a tray, and wake her up for breakfast-in-bed. He’d made a habit of stopping by the flower shop occasionally to buy a single rose and, as soon as it was paid for, handing it directly back to his wife. He’d come home with books he’d found in his shop and ask her to read to him, and sometimes, when the mood struck her, Rose would ask for a spinning lesson.

Her husband never looked more peaceful than when he was at his wheel.

Gold’s kindness and obvious affection for his wife weren’t enough to persuade the townspeople, however, that Rose French hadn’t been forced into a miserable marriage. Mayor Mills, in particular, was always paying a visit to the flower shop, offering to help Rose file for divorce. Her son, on the other hand, was all too supportive.

Henry Mills, one evening when Rose had stopped at the pawnshop to see her husband, arrived with a storybook in hand, plopping it down on the counter in front of the couple. “I’m not crazy,” he began. Rose and Gold exchanged puzzled looks.

“Of course you’re not, lad,” Gold answered. “Why do you say that?”

“Because,” Henry said, flipping open his book and turning the pages until he found what he was looking for, “this is probably going to sound _really_ weird, but trust me. It’s all true. Everything in this book? It actually happened.” He pointed to an illustration: a beautiful young woman in a golden gown and, beside her, a strange impish creature who might have looked human, were it not for his sparkly, leathery skin. “See these two? They’re Beauty and the Beast.”

Rose was about to point out that she’d never heard a version of the tale where the Beast looked like _that_ , but she held her tongue when she got a closer look at the couple in the picture. The “Beauty,” with her dark curls, bright blue eyes, and small stature… looked a **_lot_** like…

“She looks like you.” Gold finished the thought, laughing softly to himself. “That’s interesting. Thank you for showing us that, Henry.”

“Then you believe me?”

“Believe what?” Rose asked, tilting her head to the side as she examined the illustration of the Beast. If Gold was, well, _shiny_ … he’d probably look very much like the picture, she thought.

“That you’re Beauty and the Beast!” The couple blinked, unsure of the best way to handle the situation. _Obviously_ , what Henry was saying was impossible. It was a fairy tale. Rose certainly wasn’t Belle, and Gold definitely didn’t have scales.

“You mean… we’re _like_ Beauty and the Beast?” suggested Rose. After all, her father had made a deal with Gold that had resulted in their marriage; the entire town treated her husband as though he were some kind of leper. She supposed she could see where Henry had come to that conclusion.

“No, you _are_. You’re in the book. You just don’t remember because the Evil Queen cast a spell on you.” Gold thought idly that if everyone in Storybrooke was a fairy tale character, he didn’t need three guesses to know that Regina was the so-called “Evil Queen.”

“Henry…”

“Here!” The boy stepped away from the counter. “Read the story! I’m not crazy. You two are Beauty and the Beast. You have True Love!”

They humored him. And, as they read the book, Rose couldn’t help but wish that Henry was right. It was foolish, she knew, to believe that it was possible: fairy tales were only that, stories. Still, if she tried hard enough, she could almost imagine all of it. A chipped teacup (funny, she could have sworn that she’d seen one in the china cabinet at home...), a tumble from the ladder into Rumplestiltskin’s waiting arms, a True Love’s Kiss by a spinning wheel…

Blue eyes flickered to the back of the shop. The similarities between the story and she and Gold really were odd, Rose had to admit. Maybe, she thought to herself, it _could_ be true. Perhaps, a long time ago in a land far away, she had kissed her Beast and turned him into a man. Perhaps… there _was_ such a thing as True Love.

* * *

Rose had no knowledge of the woman who’d driven into Storybrooke the night before in a yellow Bug.

She waited in the back of the shop by her husband’s wheel, absentmindedly tapping her foot against the hardwood as she waited for him to return from his monthly rent collection. He’d promised her another lesson.

When, at last, Gold returned, Rose thought that something must be wrong. His eyes were shining with unshed tears, and he was looking at her as though she were a ghost-- as though he couldn’t possibly believe that she was there. He leant heavily on his cane as he approached her, and she rose to her feet in concern, resting a hand on his shoulder; she trembled when the action drew a sob from her husband’s lips.

“Sweetheart…? What’s wrong? What’s happened? Are you alright?”

A kiss was his reply.

Suddenly, everything crashed back into her. The cup, the ladder, the spinning wheel-- in a rush of what could only be magic, she found a long lost part of herself. And when, at long last, they broke apart… Belle buried her face against his neck and whispered, “I remember.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I've posted this story to my Tumblr, & if you haven't already done so, a like/reblog there would be most appreciated. You can find the post [here](http://bythedagger-a.tumblr.com/post/135553256511/rumbelle-secret-santa-for-moonlight91-prompt).
> 
> And, of course, a comment/kudos is always appreciated! Much love to everyone!


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